Along The Way

CW: This story contains themes of grief, loss, and metaphorical death.

Up to this point we have walked together.

He walked just a few paces ahead, lighting the way bit by bit. Pointing out brambles, cutting branches, finding roots.

“See those black roots?” He said once, shining his light on the rough growth, “Those are good food. They taste awful, but they’re better for you than the pink ones.”

“But the pink ones taste better,” I said, “and are easier to find in the dark.”

“True,” He said, “But that doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”

That was long before this moment, as I hold this rope steady. I was still a child back then. He had to carry me often. I was still learning to navigate the shadowy path, and I’d complain because my feet were sore. He’d lift me and carry me on his shoulders and give me the bitter black root when I wanted sweet. I guess that’s how my father knew to teach. Roughly, bluntly, as we’d press along. How many troubles have crossed like this?

Though not always just us. There were others, naturally, the Way is a busy place. Our family, our friends, those we’d pass, and those who’d join; helping when we could and being helped when we needed.

Once, when it was particularly dark, we built a fire in the middle of the Way. And as we rested others joined. Old friends, new acquaintances, travelers from all over the Way. Drawn in by the warm light of the fire. We shared stories and drinks and sang together of the journey’s end.

The world is night and dark abounds

On this and even 'neath the ground

It's only dark and toil and strife

Along the Way of this hard life.

But on ahead, or so I’m told,

There is a land all paved with gold

There are no wolves, nor endless shadow,

No cold north wind to blow and blow.

We’ll live in light and love and life

We’ll say farewell to endless strife.

Just look ahead, just look and see,

That tiny light that's calling me

Which glints and gleams through dark and trees

Which waves and calls to you and me.

Press on press on through dark and sorrow

By He Who Is we’ll see tomorrow

We’ll reach our home, we’ll see the light

With Journey’s end along with night.”

There was one among the travelers who shook his head,

“There is no city,” the traveler said, “Our world is dark. That’s reality. We’d be better off to build our fires and camp. Develop in one place instead of beating along some abandoned Way to some mythical city.”

“That’s true,” said my father, “but if dark is all there is or has been, why do we seek the light? It's the firelight that drew us here, and even those who don’t follow the Way build villages around their own lights. But their lights all fade and require constant upkeep. As for me, I’ll seek that quiet, constant Light. Perhaps it’s foolish, but so often it’s the weak, foolish things of this world that confound the mighty and the wise.”

I don’t remember the conversation, only a feeling. A sense of comprehension I still can’t quite explain. I wanted to pursue the Light and press on along the Way towards the City- mythic or real.

That was long ago. Now I can keep pace with my father, and now I'm the one holding him in place. Though I'm growing tired. Maybe that's what his friend said. Just a few months ago we'd come across him, an old friend, just standing beside the road. Standing there, staring into the dark woods and muttering.

“I’m tired,” said the friend, as we approached, “So tired of walking. But I hear them talking. Talking. They say that they’re stalking.”

“Hello, Friend,” said my father, touching his shoulder. His friend jumped, “Oh, you! Yes, you! I know you hear them too!”

My father turned to me, “Go on ahead,” He said, “I’ll talk with him,”.

Some hours later, as I sat by a river to rest, my father caught up. Alone.

“What came of your friend?” I asked.

He shook his head, “He went to the Wolves. I should have tried harder to stop him. But it’s hard to argue.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I suppose I’m getting tired of walking as well.” He muttered, then gazed at the dark water a moment, “It’s not really understood,” he said at last, “but they saw that those who die along the Way don’t die, but sleep. Sleep and dream of the City, or perhaps they’re carried there- somehow… our only task is to walk that way. To trust that the Light will lead us true.”

By the shadowy river we sat, and we talked. We spoke of those who’d gone before us, of those who the Wolves devoured, of those who walked far ahead, and those who slept.

That was months ago. But now I stand at a chasm. Straining against the fraying rope of the bridge which just collapsed beneath us.

“Hold on!” I call to my father, “I’ll pull you up!”

“I’m sorry,” he calls, dangling from the rope below, “I’m sorry!” He says, his voice just reaching me “It’s been a good walk, my boy! A great journey! But it’s time.”

“No!” I call, “Just a few miles more, then you can sleep!”

“It’s time,” he says, his voice cracking, “I’m too tired to continue. Press on my boy, press on! Through dark and sorrow! By He Who Is we’ll see tomorrow,”

The rope goes slack, and I stumble backwards. Up to this point we have walked together, but now I crawl to the edge of the chasm. Though the rope has already given me the answer, I peer over the edge and down into the darkness straining to see some trace of my father. There is no light there. No glint or gleam for my eyes to trace. No sound emerging from the hollow. I cannot see him leaving, and I cannot bear to follow.

Instead, I turn and weeping rise, and trudge along to seek the Light.